Blind Spot (10 page)

She wasn’t going to give in. “If you don’t call one for me, Jerry will. I need a priest tonight, before it gets late.”

He glanced at the wall clock hanging over her bed. “It’s already late.” His eyes moved to the erasable board next to the clock.
Today is Saturday.
“And it’s the weekend.” He folded his hands together and rested them on the edge of the bed. “I’ll pray with you, Anna. How about that? Let’s both of us pray.” He closed his eyes and bent his head down.

She coughed as she made the sign of the cross. The rosary rattled in her fingers as the breath rattled in her lungs. Anna Fontaine thought to herself:
All this for my daughter, and now I’m never going to be with her.

Nine

Bernadette got up off her knees and sat on the bench. Staring straight ahead at the candles flickering at the front of the church, she inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. In and out. In and out. In. Out. The breathing exercise reminded Bernadette that she—and not the object she would hold—was in control of her body, in control of her senses. She was the driver; the thing in her hand would be along for the ride. She would take in the sights and decide when she’d had enough, seen enough. She’d stop the ride by letting go of the object. Then came the hard work of processing what she’d observed, dissecting the killer’s actions. Though her unearthly curse of sight brought her the visions, she relied on her grounded talents and training to help her analyze what she saw.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the bag. Through the clear plastic, she studied the white-gold band with eleven tiny diamonds. Pinkie rings used to be reserved for flashy guys, but single women had started wearing a particular kind. They were called “Ah rings.” The bands could be worn on either pinkie. She’d seen pictures of the jewelry on television and in women’s magazines. Celebrity women—actresses and rock stars—stacked them on their fingers. Most men were clueless about the fashion trend, but she’d recognized the ring immediately when the ME guy at the park showed her the hand. She tipped the bag and held it at different angles until she could see the engraving inside the ring. There it was. “AH.” She frowned as she tried to remember what the initials stood for. “Available and happy,” she muttered. The rings were meant to celebrate a woman’s contentment with the single life. She brought her free hand to her chest and felt for the bands under her sweatshirt. The rings were her widow’s jewelry, her dead husband’s wedding band and her own worn on a gold chain that never left her neck. “Available and miserable,” she said in a low voice.

She opened the bag and took a breath, bracing herself as she tipped the ring into her right palm. She curled her hand around the band and closed her eyes. Imagining she could sense every single one of the diamonds, she started ticking the jewels off in her head.
One, two, three…

The diamond count stopped scrolling through her mind, abruptly replaced by a picture. She inhaled sharply and involuntarily, like a swimmer jumping into a lake. She shuddered. A cold, cold lake.

The gender and race of the killer are clear. He’s looking down at his own hands, folded in front of him. The large white mitts are covered with black hair. She sees blue trousers on his legs, and a blazer over a dark shirt. Not much of a description, but better than nothing. He raises his head and his eyes. He’s standing inches from a door. It’s oversized, and there’s a line slicing down the middle. The two halves part; it’s an elevator. He’s exiting, hanging a left and heading down a long, dim hallway. The corridor walls are lined with large rectangles—framed paintings or photos—but she can’t make out the details of the art. He’s moving so quickly the passing pictures are smears of color against the walls.

He stops at a door. Is this an apartment? Maybe not; she can’t see a number. He raises his fist to knock. Lowers his hand. He turns his head to one side and sidles up to the door. He’s eavesdropping. What is he listening to? He raises his hand again and pushes the door open. Peeks inside. What’s this place? She can’t tell immediately; it’s too dark, and everything’s too far away to make out. He enters and runs his eyes around. This is not an apartment; it is a tiny room. In the middle of the cell is a white island. A bed. He walks up to it, slowly. There’s a woman under the covers. Long blond hair fans out against the pillow. Her face is a pale oval. Can’t see her eyes; they’re half shut. He leans closer and reaches for her face—an intimate gesture—and then pulls his hand away. Perhaps he doesn’t want to wake her. Her eyes snap open anyway. They’re green. Emeralds dotting the white skin. Bernadette finds it impossible to make out any other facial features.

He glances around the room, his eyes landing on an orange chair in a far corner. He walks around the end of the bed and picks up the chair. It’s weird, this chair. Ugly and institutional. Behind the pumpkin chair is an expanse of pumpkin drapery, and beneath the drapery is a windowsill littered with squares and rectangles. Books? Photos? Greeting cards? He carries the chair to the bed and sits down.

He reaches toward a piece of furniture parked next to the bed. A small chest of drawers? Doesn’t look like normal bedroom stuff. He retrieves something off the top of the chest. A cup and a spoon. He scoops something out of the cup and holds it out to her. No takers. He’s dropping the spoon inside the cup and putting them back.

His eyes travel back to the woman. Her body. Something resting on her bed. Beads almost as green as her eyes. A necklace? A gift from him? An open book next to the necklace. He’s lifting something out of the crack of the book. A bookmark? He sets the object on the chest. What’s wrong with that damn chest? Other shapes behind it. Against the wall. Something glowing. What is all that? Electronics of some kind. His eyes go back to the bed. He’s picking up the book and looking at it. Printed words. What are the words? Too small to see. Too dim in the room.

He’s standing up with the book and carrying it across the room to the window. He’s got the book in one hand while the other is reaching for the drapery cord. The curtains open, and he looks outside. Good boy. What’s outside? Where is he? He’s looking down. The room is up a few stories. Not too high. Where? When? Dark outside, but there are lights. Streetlights. Traffic lights. Office buildings shining with interior lights. A neon sign.
FREE PARKING
. There’s more to the sign. Part of it is obscured by a low structure in front of the building boasting
FREE PARKING
. Where is parking a premium? He’s in a city. Which city? Minneapolis? Right here in St. Paul? The killer could be anywhere by now. A city outside the state. The area he sees is unfamiliar to her. No distinctive landmarks. His eyes look up and go to the right of
FREE PARKING
. Two columns. Skyscrapers? No. Too narrow. Monuments?

He’s turning away from the window. Bringing the book closer to his eyes. Most of the print is still too small to read. The title or chapter printed at the top of the page is big enough to make out.
Numbers.
What book has that? Is it some sort of reference book?

He closes the book. Walking back to her. Setting the book on the chest. He’s walking back to the window. Looking outside. Pivots away from the window. Walking back to the bed. He looks down at his girlfriend. She’s speaking. She stops. Probably listening to him yammer. Her mouth is moving again. Something’s going on. He’s looking at the chest top. Picks up something. A box. Sets it down. He’s searching for something. Feeling his clothing. Pulls out something white. Gotta be a kerchief or a scarf. She takes it.

He’s looking across the room, against the wall opposite the window. A closed door. Maybe there’s someone knocking. He stares back at the white oval draped in blond. Now he’s looking above her. The wall behind the bed. Is there a mirror? Please, God, let there be a mirror over the bed. A clock. What time is it, lover boy? The numbers are impossible to read. Must be Roman numerals. The “I”s and “V”s and “X”s all running together. The position of the hands. Eight o’clock? No. Nine o’clock. He’s reading something else on the wall. Large words scrawled on a white board.
Today is Saturday.

Bernadette gasped and reflexively opened her hand. The image washed away. She opened her eyes, lifted her wrist, and checked her watch. Nine o’clock. Nine o’clock on a Saturday. She used the bag to shield her hand while she retrieved the ring from the bench seat. She crammed the bagged jewelry in her pocket, jumped out of her seat, cut through the pew, and flew out of the church. She jogged down the church steps and ran down the block, pulling on her leather gloves as she went.

Her vision was operating in real time. If she got to her car and drove around town, maybe she’d luck out. See the towers somewhere around the Twin Cities. She stopped at a crosswalk and at that instant realized how wiped out she felt. This had been a tough one. She leaned a hand against a light post. Rising up in her gut were the killer’s emotions, a weird combination of satisfaction tempered by something else. Fear? No. Fear was too strong. Concern. He’s worried, but only a little. The satisfaction was the predominant sensation, and having that smug feeling coming from a murderer sickened her. She pushed the emotions down and caught her breath while she waited impatiently for the light to change. Cars and trucks zoomed by on the nighttime street in front of her. She smelled charred meat again. She looked across the street at the restaurant emitting the aroma.
MICKEY’S DINING CAR
, read the neon sign mounted on the roof of the diner. Above that, also in neon:
FREE PARKING
. A chill crawled up her spine, along with a realization. The killer hadn’t been seeing a pair of monuments when he’d glanced outside. She looked back over her shoulder at the building she’d just visited. There they were, rising up on each side of the church. Twin steeples.

Ten